


reciprocal

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Brief Discussion of Asexuality, Canon-typical Miscommunication, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Kink Meme, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Season/Series 04, The Scottish Honeymoon Period (159-160), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22777093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: The safehouse is the first spot of relaxation that Jon has been given in a long time. It's where he has his first heat in even longer, much to his displeasure.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 28
Kudos: 493





	reciprocal

**Author's Note:**

> this fandom is just full of new frontiers for me to explore, isn't it? 
> 
> thanks to [Mx_Carter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter) and [blooddrool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/works) for beta-reading!

The first sign that Jon has miscalculated is when he wakes up and he can smell Martin’s scent on the air. The smell is strong and comforting, a woodsmoke aroma that curls on Jon’s tongue and makes him want something he can’t name.

He’s alone in the bedroom — Martin is an early riser, Jon has learned, so he’s probably making breakfast in the kitchen — and Martin’s absence makes Jon want to bury himself in the blankets. He finds himself pressing the soft fabric to his face, breathing in deep and letting the tension unwind from his muscles. His thoughts are hazy, his body overcome by a gentle lassitude, and it seems like too much effort to drag himself from the bed. 

In the end, Jon compromises with himself by draping the blanket over his shoulders as he pulls himself into the cold autumn air. Martin will be warm, he thinks, and though the thought strikes him as an odd one, it’s not untrue. Then again, Jon feels heat simmering beneath his own skin, as though he’s suffused with sunlight, every part of him tingling with it.

Martin murmurs a gentle good morning as Jon enters the kitchen, not looking up from where he’s buttering some toast. Jon watches him, unblinking, breathing in the subtleties of his scent.

When Martin turns and sees Jon standing there, he smiles, even as his brow furrows in concern.

“Jon? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jon says. He raises his arm to wave off Martin’s worry but the blanket slips from his shoulders with the motion. He hears himself make a soft whining noise, staring helplessly down at the fabric pooling around his feet. “Maybe… maybe I’m getting sick.”

“Can you still get ill?” Martin asks quietly, but his voice lacks the joking tone he’d normally give that sort of question. He steps forward; it’s all Jon can do to stop himself leaning closer in turn.

“I don’t know.” Jon ducks his head as Martin steps into his space.

“Jon?”

“I think— something’s wrong. I feel… off.” Jon inhales deeply. He’s starting to get nervous — last time he felt so outside of himself, he pulled an innocent man’s trauma from his lips — and the comfort of Martin’s scent isn’t helping as much as it should be, laced as it is with sharp distress. It’s a feedback loop, Jon thinks distantly, anxiety shuddering through his veins.

“Are you in pain?” 

Jon shakes his head, not trusting himself to form coherent words.

Martin reaches out, hands hovering over Jon like he’s afraid to touch. When he finally does — one hand on Jon’s upper arm — it’s like someone has poured honey into Jon’s veins, liquid gold washing all his worries away. Martin is touching him, and that means everything will be fine.

He doesn’t realise that his eyes have gone half-lidded until Martin’s other hand is pressed to his chin, tilting his head up so that they’re making eye contact.

“Hello,” Jon says, smiling giddily. He feels so much better now; idly he wonders how good it might feel to be nestled in Martin’s arms, pressed against his chest.

Martin blinks. His expression is somewhere between worried and sheepish as he moves his hand down to grab Jon’s, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes go very wide, and he gives Jon a considering look over that Jon isn’t entirely sure he likes.

“I never realised,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and then he pulls Jon close. “You’re in heat.”

Elated by the gentle press of Martin’s body, it takes Jon a long moment to process what Martin said. Then he goes very still, shining euphoria wiped away by awful realisation. Ah. Yes. That would explain things, wouldn’t it?

The thing is, Jon was never the type to make a big deal out of his status as an omega. He started taking suppressants as soon as he could, preferring the resulting sickness to the humiliation of losing control of himself. After Georgie, he never expected to have a partner who would go through it with him — even if he did, he’s always felt like that’s a lot to ask of a person. 

In all honesty, he’s often wondered if the stress of the horrorshow that is his life has stalled his cycle entirely. He hasn’t needed to take suppressants in months, and his senses — ignoring the occasional flashes of omniscience — have remained at human average. 

Of course the one good thing in his life in the past few years is enough to set off this awful neediness. Even now, he’s struggling to convince himself to step back from Martin and leave him be. Maybe if he picked the blanket back up, it would be enough to comfort him. Maybe.

“Jon?” Martin asks again, distress palpable in the air.

“It’s—” Jon cuts himself off before he can say it’s fine, because both of them know it isn’t. “I— I should go back upstairs. Get some rest.” You can’t sleep through a heat, but Jon is determined to give it his best shot. It’ll be miserable, but what about his life isn’t?

Martin inhales sharply as Jon pulls away. He reaches out, but they don’t touch.

Jon picks up the fallen blanket, wrapping it around himself as he leaves. The heat under his skin is now recognisable as the aching desire to be touched, held close, protected by an alpha. The blanket doesn’t help, soft and warm as it is. But then, Jon expected that.

He curls up in the corner of the bedroom and tries not to think of Martin’s gentle hands.

Standing in the empty kitchen, Martin feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

Four years of working together and he’d always thought Jon was an alpha. Jon had fit the stereotypes, at least at first: territorial, domineering, but with a soft heart for people in distress. His paranoid breakdown after Prentiss had matched horror stories of alphas driven feral by trauma, and even after he’d recovered… Well, there were more pressing matters to think about.

But Jon is an omega, and an omega in heat — and yet he’d walked away instead of staying and letting Martin take care of him. There’s something to analyse there, and Martin can’t quite pick out what. A sick feeling is pooling in his stomach, and he finds he’s rather lost his appetite.

Sighing, he directs his attention to the breakfast sitting on the counter, both plates now doomed to remain untouched. There goes the fantasies he’d had of bringing Jon breakfast in bed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, running a hand across his face.

The worst part is, Martin’s mind keeps replaying those few moments of Jon relaxing. The way he’d bowed his head on instinct, the way he’d smiled without inhibition, the gentle honey-and-tea smell of him almost too subtle to notice. It’s enough to send a wave of heat shuddering down Martin’s spine in turn, bloody hormones reacting to the pheromones in the air.

“No,” he vocalises, just to make the denial feel more solid in his mind.

He isn’t going to go up to their bedroom. Jon clearly doesn’t want his help with this, and while Martin hates imagining Jon unhappy, he’s fairly sure he’ll only make the situation worse if he intrudes on Jon’s space. Better to stay downstairs for the next few days, maybe even leave the house so Jon feels safe enough to get himself something to eat and drink.

He spends ten minutes washing the dishes, two hours reading. When he walks down to the village for some fresh air and some groceries, fog is creeping over the fields. He stands in the quaint little newsagent and tries to remember what foods are meant to be good for heats. 

There’s no smell of Jon when Martin gets back inside. He busies himself with unpacking the shopping and tries not to think about it too hard. He tries to write, but his thoughts keep spinning around Jon’s retreat; he tries to read, but the words blur in front of his eyes. All he can do is stare up at the ceiling and let the cold of his loneliness settle in around him.

It’s late in the evening when Martin’s resolve finally breaks, and it’s only because he walks past the bedroom and hears Jon crying.

“Jon?” Martin calls, hovering outside the door.

There’s a quiet whimper from inside, a bitten-off sound like Jon is trying to stop himself from making any noise. Martin’s heart pangs, and he opens the door just a crack.

“Can I come in?”

There’s no reply. Martin sighs, hating himself for what he’s about to do. 

“I’m coming in,” he says. He pushes the door open slowly, leaving it ajar behind him as he steps into the darkness of the bedroom. His hand hovers over the light switch, but then he imagines Jon’s reaction to being seen in such a vulnerable state. He doesn’t turn the light on.

Martin has to navigate the room by touch until he finds Jon curled up in the corner of the room. His stomach clenches at the fact Jon hadn’t even felt safe to nest in their bed.

Jon’s head snaps up when Martin approaches. In the low light, his eyes reflect like a cat’s; it says something about Martin’s lack of experience that he doesn’t know if it’s an omega thing or just another Beholding thing. Jon is still crying, swallowing the sounds instead of letting them go. It’s hard to tell, but Martin thinks he looks ashamed.

Martin wants desperately to reach out, but he knows that’s not his place if Jon doesn’t want it.

“I’ll get you some more blankets.”

Martin drags as many of the blankets as he can carry over to Jon’s corner of the room, pushing them gently across the floorboards so he doesn’t get too close to Jon. Jon stares at them like he doesn’t understand what Martin is doing.

“You want to nest, right?” Martin asks, unsure of how blunt he can be without making Jon even more uncomfortable than he must already be. “You can’t do that with just one blanket.”

Jon just carries on staring for several moments, blinking away tears. When he finally looks at Martin, he shakes his head slowly.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’ll get cold.”

“I’ll be fine. You need them more than I do.”

“I’m sorry, Martin. I can’t— I don’t—”

“Jon,” Martin starts, trying to make his voice firm the way alphas on TV do. “Take the blankets.”

After what feels like a long time, Jon reaches out with a shaking hand and pulls them closer. If the whole situation weren’t so miserable, it would be cute to watch the meticulous way he arranges them, wrapping them around himself in some esoteric pattern Martin can’t figure out.

“Thank you,” Jon says again, once he’s finished. His voice is steadier; he isn’t crying anymore. 

“Have you eaten today?” Jon presses his face into a blanket, shaking his head. “I’ll go downstairs and get you something. Nothing fancy, but I’ll try and make it nice.”

Martin breathes a quiet sigh of relief as he leaves the room, focusing on the stale dust in the air to try and distract himself from the lingering scent of Jon.

As soon as Martin is gone, Jon finds himself curled into the blankets, trying to block out the world with safety and warmth and the smell of Martin. His cheeks are burning with humiliation and — as much as he hates to admit it — arousal, but at least it’s something different to the soul-crushing hormone-addled  _ despair _ that had overtaken him earlier.

He hates this. Everything aches like he’s numb from cold, but his skin is sticky with sweat from the heat simmering throughout his body. It’s frustrating to have so little control over himself. Martin has left the door slightly open, but Jon is too out of it to hear his returning footsteps, and it’s the smell that makes Jon stir, warm baked goods and sweet fruit. His stomach rumbles.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, and Jon reluctantly dislodges himself from the blankets to wave him over. 

Martin approaches slowly, baring a plate with biscuits and a sliced apple. 

“It’s not really a meal, but I kind of figured you wouldn’t be up to anything complicated.”

“Probably not,” Jon murmurs, captivated by the movement of Martin’s hands as he slides the plate across the floor. He doesn’t get close to Jon, which is understandable: it must be uncomfortable seeing someone he cares about reduced to something helpless and needy.

Jon reaches out and picks up a biscuit, annoyed at how ravenous he feels as soon as he begins to eat. Very soon, the whole plate of food is gone, and the renewed energy only makes him feel desperately restless, hands fluttering in anxiety under the safety of the blankets

Martin is still standing across the room, Jon notes. He’s wringing his hands, and the sight of it makes Jon force his own to a stop — Martin has far more reason to be nervous than Jon does.

“You can go,” Jon tells him, heedless of the way the idea makes his voice shake. “I’ll be fine.”

“Right,” Martin says, obvious disbelief flashing across his face. Jon’s shame only increases — is he that obvious? “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? Some water, maybe? A book?”

“Because omegas in heat are renowned for being able to focus on academic pursuits,” Jon snaps — or tries to. It comes out soft and tired, lacking the acerbic edge he wanted so much.

Martin still flinches at his tone, holding up his hands, and Jon feels an instant wave of guilt.

“I’m fine. You’ve done— more than enough.”

“You’re sure?” Martin hovers there, glancing nervously around the room. When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet. “You can nest on the bed, you know. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not going to make you sleep on the sofa, Martin. This is suitable for my purposes.”

“God, only you could be in heat and still talk like that,” Martin mutters. Jon has no idea whether that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult, and he’s not prepared to ask. “I’m happy taking the sofa for a few nights,” Martin continues at a normal volume, “if it’ll make you feel comfortable.”

Jon laughs. He doesn’t mean to, it just slips out, bitter and exhausted. He wants so badly to be close to Martin, to feel skin on skin, to have Martin fuck him until he can’t think—

“It’s not my comfort I’m worried about,” he says, hoping Martin will leave it at that. Martin sighs.

“Jon. You know I don’t mind looking after you, don’t you?” 

“Right. Yes. The whole biological imperative thing.”

Jon’s sure he hears Martin repeat the words ‘biological imperative’ under his breath in tones of awed amusement. When Jon looks at him, though, he’s shaking his head, mouth curved down. 

He approaches slowly, kneeling closer to Jon than he’s been since this morning. There’s that smell again, a warm woodsmoke weight settling in Jon’s lungs. Jon hears himself whine, but all his emotions suddenly feel very far away; embarrassment is impossible when Martin is so near.

“It’s not biology,” Martin says, his voice like moonlight, soft and shining. “It’s you. Just you.”

“What?” Jon manages, struggling to piece together any coherent argument. Martin doesn’t know what he’s saying. They’ve been getting along since leaving the Lonely, fingers laced together every hour of the day, but this is so much more than a few hesitant kisses. “Martin, really—”

“I’ll give you whatever you need.” There’s a steely edge in Martin’s tone that brooks no protest. He looks so much calmer than he must feel while having this burden placed upon him.

“I don’t need anything,” Jon grits out. There are tears welling up in his eyes. Why can’t Martin see how good Jon is trying to be and take the way out Jon is giving him?

“Fine. Whatever you want. You can’t tell me you don’t want anything right now.”

Jon stares at him, cataloguing every facet of his purposeful expression. The Jon of a few months ago might have asked Martin if he really wanted to do this, might have pulled it out of him piece by piece and thoroughly killed any trust between them.

But that’s the thing. Jon trusts Martin. He made that decision and it’s never seemed to steer him wrong. If Martin says this, with that look in his eyes… Well, Jon’s resolve only stretches so far.

“You,” he whispers. “Please.”

Martin’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, soft and strong and perfect, and just that simple touch makes Jon want to cry with relief. His skin tingles underneath every point of contact as Martin pulls him forward into his arms, until Jon’s ear rests just above his heart. Martin’s pulse is a reference point for Jon’s own, a rock in the sea of anxiety that has made up his waking hours. 

Distantly, Jon is aware of Martin dragging him up onto the bed, but the only thing that matters is the touch, sending heat through every part of Jon and awakening a hunger for more.

“Is this… enough?”

Jon groans, pressing his face into Martin’s chest and inhaling. It’s not enough at all, but he refuses to ask for more than this. He squirms in Martin’s lap, all that heat pooling between his thighs, slick and aching. Christ, he’s going to ruin these trousers and he hardly even cares.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Martin sounds amused, and Jon smiles in turn at the joy suffusing the air.

One of Martin’s hands hovers over Jon’s waistband. Jon’s smile is wiped away by pure desperation, all thoughts washed away by the idea of Martin’s strength filling him up.

“God, Martin, please.”

Apparently that’s all the encouragement Martin needs. He pulls the elastic of Jon’s pyjama trousers down, then seems to realise he’s going to need to take his jeans off in order to make this whole thing work. He pushes Jon onto his back and Jon goes eagerly, baring his neck and spreading his legs without the layers of defensive shame he would normally feel.

Jon’s thoughts fade out while he watches Martin undress, entranced by every inch of freckled skin being exposed. When he comes back to himself, it’s with a firework-burst of pleasure, his boxers on the floor and Martin’s thumb rubbing circles on his clit. He’s so turned on that he feels like he’s coming just from that, arching his back and curling his toes in the sheets below him.

“Wow,” he hears Martin say, very far away. “I didn’t know someone could get this wet.”

That’s the only warning Jon gets before Martin is sliding into him, slow and careful. Jon has to squeeze his eyes shut to even try to process the intensity of the sensation. 

Martin’s first few thrusts are hesitant, like he’s taking the measure of what Jon can manage, but when Jon groans and clenches around him, he growls and pushes in harder. His hands land on Jon’s wrists, pinning him to the mattress; Jon goes lax beneath him in instinctive submission. All his anxieties have faded away under the way he belongs here under Martin, open and yielding.

Time is only marked by the seconds between thrusts, by the way Martin gasps as Jon bucks his hips towards him. Jon doesn’t want to open his eyes and confront his own body, but it would be worth it to see the flush that’s undoubtedly rising beneath the constellations of Martin’s freckles.

If Jon thought he was turned on before, it’s nothing compared to now. He can’t focus on anything but the overpowering pleasure of it all, the tingling static of overstimulation wiping away any half-hearted attempts to regain a semblance of composure. 

“God, Jon, this is— too much, I can’t—”

There’s a warm gush of liquid inside Jon, a rush that he would find disquieting if he weren’t thoroughly fucked out of his own mind. He’s faintly aware of a swelling growing at the base of Martin’s dick, filling Jon completely as it locks the two of them together. A knot, Jon realises distantly, groaning at the fresh wave of twitching arousal the idea sends through his body.

Apparently exhausted, Martin leans forward until his upper body rests on top of Jon’s. The pressure is— nice. Grounding. A little sweaty. They lie there, regaining their breath.

“Oh, this is going to get so uncomfortable so quickly,” Martin says, but he laughs too, so Jon has to assume he isn’t upset about the situation. Jon would agree, but he’s too full of endorphins and all those other happy little chemicals for anything to pop his bubble of contentment.

Martin brings a hand up and begins running his fingers through Jon’s hair. Jon is startled to hear himself purring, a low rumbling sound reverberating somewhere deep inside his chest. Martin laughs again, gently dragging his nails against Jon’s scalp. Jon shifts to press his head against Martin’s hand, well aware of how much he’s acting like the Admiral at his neediest. 

“You like that, do you?”

The purring probably answers that question well enough, so Jon doesn’t bother trying to form words. Of course he likes it. It’s Martin.

For a few minutes, neither of them speak. Martin lies on top of Jon, stroking his hair. Sometimes one or both of them lets out a gasp as sensitive skin drags on sensitive skin. Jon keeps his eyes closed, pleased by the warmth and the dark and the sated safety of it all.

“I’m on birth control,” Martin says after a while, apropos of nothing.

Jon’s blissed-out thoughts take a few seconds to process that, and then he’s hit with a wave of irrational disappointment and blessed relief. He runs a hand over his stomach like it will somehow assuage both feelings at once.

“I thought—”

“You thought I wasn’t having much sex even before I started working with Peter.”

“I mean, not so indelicately as that,” Jon mutters. “And— please don’t talk about Peter Lukas when you’re—” He shifts, groaning at the pressure of Martin inside him. “Just don’t.”

“That’s fair.” The warm amusement in Martin’s voice makes Jon’s heart flutter giddily. It’s always nice to make Martin happy, but this seems to go deeper. Goddamned heat. “I just thought you’d want to know. At least afterwards.”

“Probably. It wasn’t really registering as a concern, if I’m honest.”

“Is anything?”

“Hah. No, I suppose not.”

“About that— I mean, I wanted to ask— I thought  _ you _ didn’t have sex.”

That makes Jon pause, finally opening his eyes. Martin’s face is only a few inches from his, eyes wide and cheeks flushed; his expression is quizzical, but not judgemental.

“I— don’t, as a general rule.” Jon has to take a moment to think about how to phrase things, so Martin won’t take his knot and leave him here, curled in the corner in despair all over again. “I’m not going to hate myself for this afterwards. It’s good. Better than I ever thought it could be.”

“You haven’t—?”

“Not in any way that counts. I realised early in my relationship with Georgie that it wasn’t something either of us were interested in, beyond the fickle demands of biology.”

“Okay,” Martin says, his face lighting up with a wry smile. “Can we have another rule that you’re not allowed to mention your ex-girlfriend right now?”

“That sounds fair.” It sounds more than fair to the hormone-addled instinctual parts of Jon’s brain, newly awakened and eager to demonstrate that Martin is the only thing that matters. It would be an easy enough urge to push down if he wanted to, but he knows that within an hour or two it will become irresistible all over again.

Careful not to jostle either of them too much, Jon cranes his neck upwards to kiss Martin.

“Once this is done,” he says, careful to remain euphemistic, “we should have a shower.”

“I’m not sure the shower will fit us both,” Martin replies, smiling. “But we’ll work something out.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! you can find me at [screechfoxes](https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, where i may or may not post about my fics but i sure do post about the magnus archives! have a good day!


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